


Disillusioned Interference

by brokenEisenglas



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Implied Mutilation, Implied Psychological Torture, M/M, NSFW, Not Canon Compliant, Rarepair, Violence, dubcon, hinted vore?, literary voyeurism, slightly ooc?, the Matrix is manipulative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 15:48:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14918273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brokenEisenglas/pseuds/brokenEisenglas
Summary: When the newly denounced Prime receives a message from the Lost Light, perceptibly desperate measures must be taken to ensure the safety of craft and crew.





	Disillusioned Interference

**Author's Note:**

> heed the tags.
> 
> This project has been ongoing for... a WHILE now. Quite some time. Not sure if it has been quite a year but... I had an itch. And, I have FINALLY mostly satisfactorily scratched it.

Subspace transmission: >example_

Official Messages: [[ example ]]

 

>..._

>Incoming transmission_

>Accept: Y/N_

>Danger_

>Transmitting Coordinates_

>Projected course as shown_

>Confrontation inevitable_

>..._

>Mission compromised_

>..._

>Run_

>End transmission_

 

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A mech sits in the captain’s chair on the empty bridge of a smaller long range scouting vessel. His red and blue paint is faded and his cerulean optics flicker periodically. The blue helm nods every so often, and the mech struggles to keep his systems alert.

He is exhausted.

Text runs across the holoscreen in front of him, and space passes by the window beyond. The stars are nothing more than thin streaks of light on blackish blue canvas, blue and red twisting the light just so.

Blue optics stare lifelessly onward, following a path periodically projected for course correction.

The kliks tick on and the path pops-up more often. The mech is lost in thought, and the path completely forgotten. A blue servo absent mindedly rubs against armored chest plates, the action seemingly unintentional.

Maybe it was cowardly, running from the responsibilities of guiding their post-civil war society. Maybe it was wrong to abandon the Primacy, the Autobots… the people. Perhaps he should have stayed. Offered support to Starscream, the new Chosen leader of Cybertron and its people.

He should go back.

This was his calling, his purpose, right? From Enforcer to Autobot Commander to Prime. He remembers his disbelief. Why would an ancient artifact such as the Matrix choose someone like him? Someone who doesn’t believe… or doesn’t know if they should.

He thinks about the integration of the Matrix with his systems, about the pain of the relic in his chest and the burn of his mind afterwards. The hand on his chest pauses, flattening where it rests.

_You were built for this,_ it whispered. _You will serve._

He had. He had served. Fought both off and on the field, against the corruption that once ruled his world and against the tyranny facing it. He was built for this.

Built to fight, right? Built to wage battle, to protect the innocent. Or, rather, to kill the guilty. But, who to cry “guilty”? He fought against corruption. That was his primary objective. He did his job! Maybe? He is no longer certain.With the fall of the old Cybertron, he is no longer certain of his role in this new one. A new leader has been elected, and loathe as he is to truly accept it, Starscream had always wanted the seat of power.

Time to see how well he could handle it.

Orion raises himself up from the navigation chair of the Harmony with a grunt and grinding gears. He looks around the small command deck knowing that there will be nothing new for him to see but checking anyway. It is hard to break old habits.

He notices that he has veered from his original course and realizes that his thoughts had distracted him more than normal.

Sighing, he places the ship into autopilot.

He heads to the personal chambers upon the ship. A serving of energon might do some good for his exhaustion.

As he walks, he cannot help but to reflect...

This self-imposed exile is lonely.

He greatly misses the constant noise of troops, of gossip, of communications back and forth. What had once grated his audials now seems better than the ghosts of memories made and loved ones lost.

The door to the personal chambers slides open and he pauses to scan the room. Lonely. Yes, it describes him well.

He makes his way inside, going straight to the energon dispenser and grabs himself a drink. The mid-grade fills the cube slowly, and he worries he may not have had the reservoir topped-off before leaving. Concerned, he turns to the berth and reaches beneath a pillow-- a luxury he had come to enjoy from a gift given to him on Earth. He would have to remember to thank the humans again for their kindness.-- and sees the message light on his datapad blinking.

Opening the screen, he sees that he has a message from the Lost Light; particularly, he has a message from Ultra Magnus.

 

[[Received_

Orion Pax,

I have contacted you, in part, to express a concern about your dismissal of your role as Prime and leader of the Autobot forces; however, a more immediately concerning matter has arisen.

The Decepticon Justice Division has been projected to cross paths with the Lost Light within the next three solar cycles. Due to some of the… refugees aboard the Lost Light, this eventual meeting must be deterred if not entirely postponed.

A captain has been notified of the situation, per necessity.

Megatron emphasizes the importance of the crew’s exclusion from this knowledge as “keeping the peace.” In order to do so, we must stay en route to our current destination, but seek assistance from Cybertron.

Attached are the projected coordinates for the Lost Light and the Peaceful Tyranny.

We await your response.

 

Ultra Magnus

Autobot Commander

_Closed]]

 

Rereading the message, Orion notices an obvious inconsistency with the Magnus’s writing and wonders. His grammar was normally more proper and his sentences more concise.

A small smile forms on Pax’s face.

Perhaps he should ask Megatron to elaborate his thoughts when next they’d meet.           

However, it does raise a good point. During the war, a particular communication from Magnus had revealed a rather interesting bit of information: coordinates of the Peaceful Tyranny. When he had commanded the Autobot troops, he had never thought to question in depth the reliability or even the feasibility of Magnus’s access to the locations of the Decepticon Justice Division. Now, however, he wonders.

How _does_ Ultra Magnus know about the DJD’s location and plans?

A conundrum for another time, he opens a return message.

Orion contemplates his options. Tarn and his team are enroute to cross paths with the Lost Light. Tarn’s intentions are not to find Megatron, at this time, but the likelihood of an encounter is more than probable. It is inevitable… unless Tarn is redirected.

“The Magnus” had said that the Lost Light crew had yet to be notified. The only other crew member to know of the Peaceful Tyranny’s path is Megatron. Knowledge born of necessity. Implied was a possible ship-wide panic.

Hmmm…

Unknown to Megatron, Orion does in fact know that Tarn is a convert from his Outlier team from before the war. Orion remembers speaking to Glitch about Megatron, suggesting the miner’s writings. He and Glitch, Tarn, did have some history. And, their pasts were not so distant when considering the average Cybertronian lifespan.

Perhaps, he wonders, he might be able to divert the Justice Division’s leader from his current path, and, at the same time, persuade the mech to see some reason.

His message to Ultra Magnus and Megatron is short.

In response, it is presumably Megatron that sends him a frequency and system account, likely directly to the ship, in order to contact Tarn and his lackey’s.

He thinks.

Downing the last of the energon, Orion sets himself to write. It has been a… very long time since he last composed such a message. The stylus hovers over the screen. How to proceed? Where to begin?

What kind of information would tear the DJD, in particular, Tarn, from their current goal? What could possibly…

An epiphany, like a voice from afar, whispers, and Pax writes.

When finished, there is something in him that is more than just a little bit pleased. Most mechs would worry about someone so obviously gleeful and would wonder what trouble follows. Even the most insane of mechs would have been concerned. A lonely mech should not be left to such devices. But, Pax was never a complete stickler to the rules.

Morals, they’re called.

Orion rereads his draft. Perhaps this first attempt was too… transparent. Another draft, and an adjustment or two and he stops. A better product, for sure. Vague, unassuming, a promise for information but unrevealing.

As unassuming as the message may seem, he really shouldn’t do this… it would be disastrous. But, not to do so would result in worse. Besides, he had already committed. This is for the best, surely.

If not the best, then for honor.

He sends the message, and waits.

 

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Elsewhere in this vastness of space, the face of Decepticon Justice flies in the form of a sleek ship and a crew of five murderous machines and their minibot medic. At the helm of this vessel, the purple face of the Voice of Death stands. Red optics stare into the passing void as he thinks.

Their trip leads them to a galaxy of insignificant name but of great advantage. The List would have a few more names removed, and his cog would find satisfaction. This current one had been of poor quality _before_ installation. It is time for a new one.

A notification appears at the top of a screen beside the Captain’s chair, and Tarn makes his way over. The message is from Kaon.

[[Request: Meeting in 2 orns.]]

Tarn responds swiftly in the affirmative. He briefly wonders what his counterpart would require a more formal request for, storing the question in his queue.

A self-notification displays on his internal HUD and he sets the ship to autopilot. It would be another two or three-quarter solar cycles before there would be any need to worry about navigational concerns. Besides, the Peaceful Tyranny is one of the finest Decepticon vessels ever produced, if not the finest.

Autopilot set and a nod away, Tarn begins his rounds through the Peaceful Tyranny.

Hall after hall, nothing of import appears; however, behind a door marked with a medic’s symbol, he can hear Nickel lecturing about… something. Pausing, he checks an internal log, and grins. Tesaurus, vaccine updates.

Good luck with that one.

He mentally corrects himself. A ship in top shape is entirely necessary for the good and proper completion of a mission and the safety of the vessel and crew. There is no room for humor or dalliance in regards to medical well-being.

Something in his mind tickles, and another thought intrudes.

_Old habits die hard_

Optics widened, he vents a quick breath and stops. There is something…

But, good health and performance are necessary.

The tickle leaves and his tension eases. Plates lift and shift, triggering a slight pain in the rugged T-cog. It requires Tarn to forcefully meditate.

“Good health and performance,” he mutters under breath.

Speaking of… He needs to have a word with Vos.

Beginning his walk once more, he opens his crew logs and notices that Vos has skipped his last two medical examinations. A tingling builds in his spine and travels to the base of his helm.

This would not do.

A clipped message composed and sent, he plans a meeting with the communications officer directly following his and Kaon’s own scheduled business.

His path brings him by a training room where he hears Helex fighting a simulation. A twinge of interest has him hesitate at the door’s handle, but another notification appears on his internal HUD. The message waits at the captain’s station. Sighing, he returns to the bridge. Sometimes, he thinks to himself, leadership can be quite…

Lonely.

 

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Aboard the Lost Light, Megatron sits on the berth in the Magnus’s room with a data pad in one hand and stylus in the other. The Magnus suit stands tall against one wall while the wearer uses the wash racks. They had received the transmission from the Peaceful Tyranny not even two orn ago and expressly written a message of concern to send to Optimus.

With Cybertron in a politically tumultuous state of “who has more power and say; I do, _Lord_ Starscream, Supreme Ruler of--” co-Captain and Second in Command thought of no other to turn to.

 

_“You do realize that Optimus no longer has the power he once did?”_

_Megatron nods. Another regret of his, forcing Optimus into conducting his trial, even if that manipulation was not so intentional as it ended up becoming._

_The ex-tyrant tightly grips Magnus’s data pad, the screen discoloring from the stress. A message flickers. An announcement from the “New” Cybertronian Council._

Optimus Prime Relinquishes Title of Prime, Code and Conduct

_Megatron stares._

_Ultra Magnus watches the warlord. Notes the tension in his body, the grip of his servos, the grind of dente._

_Perhaps… he should not have allowed Megatron to read the Council’s announcement._

_“It is most likely that Optimus tired of their political games,” the silver mech’s voice mumbles. “It is a shame. And, quite honestly, very inconvenient.”_

_Inside the suit, Minimus smiles privately._

_“Agreed.”_

_Easing his hold, Megatron hands the data pad to the Magnus, who sets it aside the mech on the berth. Megatron looks at him, a silent query._

_“I’m getting out of this. Hold on.”_

_The sound of latches releasing sends a giddy feeling up Megatron’s struts. He was supremely fond of Minimus’s true form. Smaller, compact, and quite… dapper._

_Desires aside, “If it is true that the DJD are on their way--”_

_“They are.”_

_“-- then we will need to find some way to have the course approved for change. I doubt Starscream will be willing to approve any detours from my trial, but, surely, there is someone on the Council we might be able to convince.”_

_Finally removed from the armor, Minimus hops to the ground and approaches the berth on which Megatron sits. He grabs the pad as Megatron lifts him._

_“I believe, with Optimus’s recent retirement, that we may be, as Rodimus would say, S.O.L.”_

_Unable to hold back, Megatron just… laughs. Hard. Very hard. Hard enough to cause optic fluid to flood and fall from his eyes._

_Minimus just smiles._

_For just a moment, the severity of the situation is forgotten, set aside._

_While Megatron collects his dignity once more, Minimus composes a short message requesting a video call with Opti- Orion Pax._

_Megatron reads over the smaller mech’s shoulder._

_“No. No video.”_

_“What would you suggest?”_

_Humming to himself, Megatron takes the pad and writes his message, using the Magnus’s signature for credential purposes._

_“This.”_

 

Now, as he waits, Megatron considers the implications of Optimus stepping-down from the role of Prime. If he had heard from the crew correctly and properly understood, this renouncing of position would be seen as insult to injury by many of the Neutral and Colonial citizens. A Prime who abandons his duties.

Ungrateful peons.

They know nothing.

Somewhere, in the darkness that lingers, Megatron feels a stab of glee at the thought of silencing such idiotic fools but tamps down on that urge.

Still, it concerns Megatron, this sudden change in the elder Prime. He thinks about Rodimus and how the Young Prime would respond. What would he think? With his youth and temper, what should they expect?

Likely, anger.

Possibly, scoffing.

Claims of hypocrisy and dishonesty.

In all, a mess.

A ping snaps his attention back the pad in hand. The door to the wash racks opens; Minimus towels off leftover droplets, raising a brow at the sound.

Megatron opens the message, disappointed and relieved all at once:

 

[[Received_

 

Understood.

I’ll take care of it.

_Closed]]

 

Well… “He sure does have a way with words.”

Minimus reads over his shoulder, then barrels over in laughter.

 

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_Loneliness_ … With a shake of his helm, Tarn cast aside the stray thought.

The bridge is empty upon his arrival. Another orn and Kaon would be in for their conference. He considers the curtness of Kaon’s request, nothing seemingly abnormal, yet, the tingling nagging at the back of his processor does not disappear. Vos has affirmed his meeting with their Captain, and Tarn dismisses the issues to be discussed further later.

The message for him blinks and his promptness demands his attention. What he receives stalls his processor, all surroundings dissipating.

 

 

 

[[Received_

Commander Tarn, Leader of the Decepticon Justice Division,

 

I message you with a formal request regarding parley.

As of this moment, the Autobot-Decepticon war is at a close and Cybertron is led by a democratically chosen leader.

However, I have information regarding Autobot conspiracy against the current government, and against Decepticon interests. It is with regard to this information that I request an official parley, no others present.

Besides the secrecy of our meeting, the terms of agreement are to be discussed upon the location.

I have no reasonable excuse to lie about such information, and believe the exchange will be more favorable towards your own pursuits.

Attached are the coordinates for this meeting.

            I await your reply.

 

Optimus Prime

Autobot Commander

_Closed]]

 

            The door behind the captain’s center opens, and Tarn is aware of Kaon’s extended field, requesting entry, expressing concern. Tarn closes the message, encrypting its contents and turns.

            “Come, Kaon.”  He waves to the space in front of him. “You had something you wished to discuss.”

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“I am afraid.”

            Minimus pauses in his movements, one leg almost locked into the Magnus armor. His optics rise to look at the mech in his berthroom.

            Megatron stands at the energon dispenser, servos tightly clutching a cube of mid-grade close to his chest. Minimus knows what the ruling stated, but a mech Megatron’s size could bot subsist on Fool’s energon alone. Perhaps, he muses, he could convince the medics to begin transitioning the dosage to regular energon without alerting Megatron. Hmm…

            The grey tank shifts in place, optics staring spacey into the distance.

            “Of?”

            “Many things.”

            Minimus has grown used to Megatron’s vague statements. He would assume it is the workings of a poet, if poets were the only ones to be so riddled in mystery and avoidance. He waits patiently for MEgatron to continue, silently encouraging the mech to elaborate.

            “I was created to die in the mines. Faced death in the arenas. Survived a revolution, and led a crusade across the universe. I lived with the expectation of assiassination, or death as a martyr upon the battlefield.

            “I have had time to reconcile the mech I was with the monster I became,” he stops.

            A heaviness settles over him that Minimus has only seen once before.

            “But,” he sets the cube down on the counter. His fist bunches and his optics shut. “I… I am afraid of what this,” he waves,” all means for those I’ve come to love.”

            Crimson optics meet.

            “I am afraid, Minimus, of losing.”

            _You._ Minimus realizes is left unsaid. His spark burns inside his chest. He thinks back to what they have done, have become. And, in those, other memories join. The warning, the danger… Orion’s response.

            _No, not just me_ , Minimus thinks. Memories of Rodius and Megatron bickering on the bridge. Tailgate seeking the silver mech’s advice. Cyclonus talking poetry. The crew, many of them slowly warming to the ex-tyrant. Optimus, before the trial, the secret meeting, the judgement.

            _All of us_.

            The people he loves.

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He stands alone in the middle of the Harmony’s bridge. Outside, swirls of reds, blues, purples, and golds glow from the stars within the nearby nebula, a hot region host to the birth of new from the death of the old. Such a beautiful wonder, that within his lifetime he has seen the collapse of such power and the stages of galactic formations alike. The universe, grand creator of all things, reminding of one’s insignificance and, yet, unequivocal uniqueness. Place and purpose for all. He basks in the knowledge of such wonder.

            A mid-priority alert pops onto the view screen: small craft inbound.

            Over the last three solar cycles, Orion had prepared the ship. Weapons stored and locked. Systems on auto, security coding further encrypted and secured. Measures taken to ensure informational safety and… seclusion.

            The alert upgrades to warning of approaching enemy vessel. Even without the sensor, Orion knew. He can feel the tell-tale tingling deep within his chest. The place where this half of the Matrix lay burns with the coming opportunity. And, as the Peaceful Tyranny’s podship approaches, his venting increases, cooling systems priming as he waits for his guest to board.

            Patience.

 

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The darkness that engulfs him beckons.

“You received my message.”

He can feel the presence of the other’s spark, that outlying spirit tingeing the air.

Tarn’s reveals himself from the shadows of the Harmony. His hulking form graceful despite its bulk. Nearly silent as he steps into the room.

“Yes,” he growls. Step by step, the tankformer approaches. The _thump whoosh_ of step and gears loud in the silent darkened space. “Obviously.”

Tarn’s movements are calculated, cautious but confident. Optimus feels the other mech’s energy, the pull of his spark, and he closes his optics for just a moment…

Talons grab his mask, and servos lift and slam his hauler frame against the bridge window. Engines barely rise above an idle as energon pumps through their frames. Tension builds in the clawed servo on him, slowly pushing, crushing the battle mask.

Pax smiles.

“You accepted it.”

Tarn stops. Eases his hold. Letting Pax rest flat on his pedes. Optimus watches. He can feel something, that energy, in Tarn. Something _off_. Something… different.

Suddenly, both servos are moving, one to the neck, the other to the breast. Weight pushes against him, and, despite the Decepticon’s collected reputation, Tarn bares his dente behind the mask.

The face of the Decepticon’s stares Optimus down. The face of a rebellion. _Of a revolution._ The prime’s engine kicks up a gear and vents huff. Between them, hydraulics hiss and engines rumble. Tarn can smell the beginnings of ozone, the electrifying air. He leans in _so close_...

            “You stated in your message that you had information.” A claw on his neck digs into a main energon line. The scent grows stronger. “Information regarding the state of Cybertron’s affairs.”

            Optimus feels the beginnings of Tarn’s powers prodding at the frequency of his spark. Seeking synchronization.

            “Yes.”

            Tarn waits expectantly, frustrated when Optimus refuses to continue.

            “You say that you have evidence of Autobot conspiracy. To subdue, possibly even destroy the Decepticon cause?”

            Silence.

            Tarn is an interrogator. Optimus knows this. So he waits.

            And waits.

            And, as the the grip upon him clenches and releases, over and over, tighter with each repetition, he can see through the mask of the face of the Enemy, _of a new age_ , and patience wearing thin.

            But, he will not lose the upper hand.

            Tarn is a scheduled mech. One that hates the wasting of time.

            “Your message requested silence.” The servo on the prime’s neck loosens but does not remove. The tank steps back, lightly pulling the truck with him and away from the window. The bridge chamber in which they stand is not large. Together, the mechs fill a quarter of the once empty space. In his peripheral, Tarn notes the specs of their surroundings.

            The Harmony is not a small vessel, but definitely not a vessel meant for more than a short voyage, holding no more than a small crew.

            “Secrecy?” Tarn drops his servo from the prime’s collar, the other from his spark. Optimus remains at attention. His optics do not waver as he stares forward at the back wall, faintly illuminated by the nebula and stars behind him. Tarn’s presence is tracked in field and step as he walks the perimeter of the chamber. Taloned servos trace the command chair, the energon dispenser, and back to the main control board. Looking, evaluating. A predator.

            “You entice me,” his whispers, “with information capable of destroying the current Autobot supremacy on Cybertron. Information,” a talon taps on the lifeless controls on the board, “you’ve said, that could end in a Decepticon victory…”

            He can feel Optimus’s optics on him.

            _Do you feel it?_

            The air around the tank changes. Electricity crackles in the room. The scent intensifies...

            Crimson optics rise.

            It is said, in stories of the Primes of old, that in them the power and beauty of the Creator himself shines. That, in them, the Universe-- the beginning, the end; life and death-- can be seen by all. For a mech such as Tarn, a believer of no cause above that of _the_ Cause, there was no more room to foster such foolish beliefs.

            But, as he stares, the air around the mech before him warps and changes. Electric charge jumping cables, crawling across plating…

            “ _Peace_ through _Tyranny_.” The lacing of his powers tips the other mech, over the precipice of desire. Engines growl, gears grind, and Tarn wants nothing more than to rip the mask from the other mech’s face and watch as Optimus’s mouth drops open attempting to in-vent while Tarn uses his servo to grip his throat as the other servo taps the plating lower and—

            “Get down on your knees.”

            Optimus obeys.

In the dim light, the monster prowls. Red optics blaze, fixed upon their prey. Before him, the Prime kneels, helm bowed and eyes forward. He is silent, waiting.

“Tell me, Optimus Prime… _What is it you seek?_ ”

            Within his chest, the Prime feels his half of the Matrix flare and his spark quicken. Heat flushes his systems, and lubricant builds behind his closed panels. His spike aches to be released. But, he is not in control here. Whatever measure of power he once had, he has released. Here, now… he obeys.

            Tarn hums, a low level frequency, seeking that one note, that one measure. The measure of them all, to which every Cybertronian was built to respond. Every mech and femme, tuned just so. This, Tarn knows, is why the _gift_ works. Seeking that one note, that one resonation…

            _There_.

            Before him, Optimus curls forward, vents gushing, vocalizer cutting and buzzing. The overload hits him quickly, and without warning. The adrenaline pumps through Tarn’s lines. His spark responds, flaring, pulsating back, _I feel you. I know you._

            The Matrix burns with want, and Optimus is no more able to give as he is to fulfill its desires.

            A ghost of a smile twitches his lips. Tarn walks around the kneeling mech. A clawed hand reaches, grabbing the recovering mech’s battle mask and jerking his eyes upwards.

            To his surprise, someone else looks back.

            _I know you._

            Ruby optics widen behind the face of the Decepticon cause. His own spark pulls in response. As opal optics stare, he cannot help the bit of anger and desperation that builds and claws from somewhere deep within. He feels seen. Noticed. Observed. As if those eyes can see all that he is.

            Vanity. Anger… Insanity.

            Tarn roughly casts the Prime’s face aside, disgust warring with repressed desire. The thought occurs to him once more that this is his enemy. The leader of the faction he wages war against. _A leader with no crew onboard_. With no evidence of others traveling with him. No protection. No visible weaponry.

            As Tarn turns from the mech before him, looking out the window at the expanse of the nebula before them, another thought occurs to him, one not entirely of his own device.

            _He is running away._

As Optimus recovers on the floor of the command deck, he can feel the power of the Matrix overcoming him. Interfering.

            Unfettered anger fills his spark. Millenia without word, without answer, and now is when it would choose to interfere. Now, when least it is desired, it chooses to—

            “Perhaps, you are a _prisoner_ within your own body.”

            Optimus throws his helm back and keens like an animal in need, crying for help. Tarn knows that he has found the true reason for this encounter. “Perhaps,” he leans and growls into the mech’s audials, “you have come to be released.”

            A hand reaches for his mask, which parts before it can be ripped from its latches. The hand moves and pushes him back while the other pulls his thigh. He reaches forward to catch his balance, stopping his fall backwards. Hips roll and what panic had shot through is erased by overwhelming pleasure. The hulking chassis pushes him to the ground, grinding down.

            Optimus gasps, vocalizer fritzing. Clawed hands pull his own servos from the purple chassis, pushing them to the ground above his helm.

            “Keep them there.”

            Below Tarn, the Prime obeys. His blue and red chassis bows with the desire to be touched. His field ripples with want, need, _need, please_.

            It takes Tarn the entirety of his being to not give in.

            Stay in control.

            _Let go._

            That same power, that voice Tarn realizes, calls to him… commands him.

            “I,” he whispers to the venting Prime’s chest, “am servant to no one.” Not anymore.

Blue helm tilts back, mouth clenched in repressed noise. Until he grinds out, _not him, not the Prime_ , “Then, ghhh, it is g-ood… I am szzervant to all.”

The optics that look back at him are the same opal of the being not quite the Prime. Somewhere inside him, that pulling feeling tugs, and the anger boils. Claws dig into red plates, grip tightening with the growing anger until a touch to the seam of his mask jerks him back. Opal has become blue, and the hand wavers, a silent but insistent request.

“No,” he growls. “I am in control here, Prime.”

Optimus cries for the touch. Inside, the Matrix burns in need and _anger_ \- _give me what I want_ \- but Optimus ignores its demands. Clawed servo pushes held wrists above his helm, the other tweaking weaker abdominal plates to seek sensitive wires beneath. The trail of Tarn’s touch stings. His fans click and whine, attempting to keep up with the building heat.

            Below him, lubricants drip to the floor, leaking from behind his panel. His spike throbs in its casing. And, if that servo could just move slightly lower, closer…

            “Do not move,” Tarn’s hand pushes the Prime’s hips, stilling them in their search. The command echoes in Optimus’s processor, closing secondary command threads and stilling his entire body despite his warring desires. Tarn hums, pleased. Optimus’s spark pulls in his chest.

            The claws pushing his hips close around the closed interface array. Tarn expects the Prime to disobey his commands, but finds himself pleasantly surprised. With the stoicism and Primely control so often rumored of him, Optimus does not respond.

            Too bad the panels are in the way.

            Claws quickly grasp and rip the protective panels from the array. Optimus cries out from the pain, his EM field filled with spiked aggression and hurt.

            But he does not pull away.

            Tarn smiles cruelly behind his mask. Below him, he watches for the slightest of jerks away from his touch, hoping for the disobedience that never comes. He raises the panel before his eyes and wonders.

            With a light push, reminder of the Prime’s position, Tarn removes the other servo from the mech’s chassis. A finger traces the edges of the Prime’s facing equipment as Tarn considers.

            “I wonder what you taste like.”

            With a few clicks and a whir, Tarn’s mask falls from his face. Below him, Optimus’s optics blaze with awe and desire. Despite the scars, despite the faction, Prime radiates _wantneedtaketaketaketake_.

            Glossa licks the lubricant covered plate.       

            “Mmm,” he snaps his eyes to the awestruck Prime, “ _Cybertron_.”

            Within his chest, the Matrix preens. Its energy builds and thrums through his systems, attempting to take control once more. Optimus refuses its call, pain lacing through his lines in its wake. _Givewanttakeneedtakewanttaketaketake_

            Optics shuttering, Tarn can sense the internal fight, can feel it in his being.

            “There is no place for _that here_ ,” he rumbles. A claw presses against the fine sensitive mesh outside the Prime’s valve, traces the nodes along its edge. Optimus keens with want.

            “…please… Tarn…”

            “You did not answer me, Optimus Prime. What is it you seek?”

            Optimus uses all his resolve to not move, to not give in. To obey command.

            The lubricants pooling below the Prime’s equipment glisten with the light of the nebula. His armor glows like horded treasure in the bowels of a cavern. Tarn’s lips whet with the desire to take, to be the beast whose hoard this mech is.

            The feeling surprises him.

            “P-please. Frrrag me.”

            Red optics meet blue.

He snaps.

Thrusting fingers inside, his pace is unrelenting and dangerous. Optimus cries beneath him, wanton in controlled struggling. Tarn half-mindedly checks that the other mech is ready, valve wet and stretched enough to take him.

Optimus wants so badly it pains him. Tarn’s spell has its grasp on him, a hold in which he relishes. To finally give up control, to have it arrested from his hands.

Invigorating.

Tarn’s claws burn, unintentionally scraping valve walls, leaving minor tears in their wake. He does not care. At this moment, with his need so great, and the Matrix livid and demanding, he could be shredded and torn apart from within and he _would not care_.

The sound of a snapping panel refocuses him to the mech atop him. Optimus looks down and his optics widen. He knew that Tarn was likely big…

“Oh, fuck.”

Tarn’s laugh is like music to the audials; his knowledge of the human expletive may have been limited, but the intonation well understood.

“Like what you see?”

            From between the powerhouse’s legs springs forth a spike remarkably designed, proportioned for the purpose of pleasuring mech’s the size of Optimus with no room for error. Full, curved, and _adorned_. The black spike’s silver and purple biolights blink and flicker in patterns, the circuit of energy running through them building without an outlet to release. A closed circuit looking for resolution.

            “Go on, then, Optimus Prime. _Touch it_.” Tarn’s crimson optics glow like simmering coals. Optimus moves his hand from above his helm, finger hesitant to trace along the length of the member hovering so close to his own interface array. Above him, Tarn hums encouragement, and lowers himself onto all fours, bracing for the stimulation to come. Spurred by the tank, he takes courage and traces the member from base to tip, and the sound Tarn makes almost tips Optimus into his own shallow overload. “It has been… quite some time…”

            Optimus’s optics return to scarlet blaze above him.

            Tarn is beautiful.

            He grasps the spike in his hand and pulls.

            “Ugh, fffggggguuuuhhhhhtzzzzz….” Tarn bucks his hips into that servo, unable to hold back. Plates along the spike’s length lift and drop in ripples, and the mech below him gasps, field filled with utter fascination and lust. The blue servo adjusts, stroking with intermittent tight and then loose grasp, curved angles and twists, retaining interest and exploring the extent of freedom granted. Tarn’s thoughts trail and focus hazes. His body begins to overcome his mind, and the beast within grows stronger. “More...” He groans, fluids leaking onto the array of the mech below him. “ _More_.”

            Optimus pants. His other servo having come down to fondle sensitive abdominal plates and wires, his body needing some other form of stimulation, overheating from the lack of release. The command is like balm to burn. Guiding the spike to his valve, Tarn pushes in slow but forcefully. The whine in his engine is all Optimus allows as Tarn waits, calming himself. Preparing for his battle.

            _For his conquest_ , he knows.

            The first ripple of plates inside him surprises him.

            The second sends him into a shallow overload.

            Hands grasp the sides of Tarn’s chest plates hard enough to dent.

            “ _I want to hear you scream_ ,” he whispers. Plates ripple closed and he thrusts. Over and over. Harder, faster, shallow, deep, current building, running rampant. Nodes stimulated, valve fluttering. Prime cries for more, baritone to falsetto, he _needs_ more. “Louder.”

            Optimus does not disappoint.

            With one hand, Tarn balances his body to continue his thrusts, whilst trailing the other down the Prime’s transfluid covered abdomen. The talon catches along the way, pulling plates and seeking wires. Trailing all the way until-

            “Release your spike.”

            Optimus’s member extends into the claws awaiting. The bright red and blue lights flicker on sleek white plates. Pink transfluid drips from the tip onto Tarn’s claws.

            “Gorgeous.”

            The pace is brutal, down stoke for every thrust. The clashing of meeting plates echoing around them. For Optimus, sensors unused for so long now burn with overwhelming sensation. Tarn’s ventilations overheat his plates, dominating his abilities of perception. He is so close. He needs more. His chest aches; his valve ripples.

            “I, I, I need… Tarn, I need…”

            With the piercing of teeth, he screams.

            Tarn holds with all force. Plates expand and lock. His own overload rushes in a cascade of sensations. The sudden explosive heat of his array, empty yearning in his spark, the burn in his joints. The Prime’s energon bleeds into his mouth. Its taste that of primitive need and home.

            _You have done well_.

            The voice startles him from the post-overload haze. Below him, Optimus’s ventilations hitch and huff, struggling to cool a still heated frame. The Prime looks…

            Divine.

            Light dances on his plates. Biolights glow warm. Content.

            Inside, he feels the valve walls continue their contractions, pulling him in, closer, fuller.

            Glossa along the punctured energon line, he tastes the activiated self-repair nanites, watches them do their work. Fascinated by their efficiency, he stares as the punctures quickly close. With the feeling of eyes upon him, he bends to lick away the leftover energon.

            “Mmm…” He hums. “I could have more of this.” Prime shudders; the motion translates through his valve.

            When Tarn pulls away, Optimus gasps. The emptiness is unwelcoming and cold. But, when he goes to protest, burgundy optics silence him. Tarn shifts his body lower, aligning helm to pelvic span, and despite what Optimus wishes to happen, he will not insist nor assume… but, he will hope.

            “In fact, I do not yet think I’ve had my fill.”

            Translation: I’m not done yet.

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The request for an urgent meeting is not unusual for Megatron in the middle of his shifts. With the functioning of the Lost Light Crew, he would find it more alarming if the request had been considered low priority. The implications of a low priority message usually meant that someone wanted to be ignored for some odd or mischievous or ridiculous reason or another. Thus, with steady stride, he opened the internal messaging system only to sprint as fast as possible to the medbay. He does not remember who he passed or shoved, only that he needed to get there, quickly.

            “Get in my way, and I’ll weld your aft to the wall.”

            On the medberth, Rodimus is held down by Velocity and First Aid. His body is tense, back bowing, but the worst is the silent scream.

            “What is going on?”

            Ultra Magnus comes to his side, hand resting on his shoulder. Megatron is too distracted to worry about the physical show of support.

            “He collapsed in the hall. He was seizing. One of the crew, Reidar, a neutral during the war, found him and called for help.” The Magnus squeezes his shoulder once before dropping his hand. Megatron feels the removal, and wishes for its return. On the other side of the bay, Ratchet works with the other medics to stabilize and stasis Rodimus.

            “Any idea what caused it?”

            Gruff and livid as ever, Ratchet stomps over to them.

            “Of course I have an idea.” He bypasses them to wash his hands at a basin. Field radiating righteously angry concern. “But, you aren’t going to like it.”

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Valve lips spread wide, glossa deep within, he yearns for more. The heat of arousal circulating his systems like the convection in the stars. Cooling and burning, over and over, too much and not enough. Never enough.

            “tzztttarrrrrnnnnnn…”

            That internal pull in his chest had begun once more. Begging him to take what should be surrendered.

            _You are not my master_ , he feels himself respond.

            Beneath his talons, the Prime’s straining increases, the chase for overload translated beneath talon and tongue. The Prime is not entirely himself, not truly.

            _He could be yours_ , it responds.

            The song of the eldritch artifact has changed, Tarn notes. Some baser desire is being satisfied, beyond the pleasure of interfacing. But, not entirely different. The essence of the Matrix still pulls him. Demands of him.

            ‘ _It is a prison’_

Tarn stops. The words echoing in his mind. The voice of a mech he once worshipped warning him of the dangers.

            ‘ _A prison full of willing prisoners.’_

            Pain he has not felt before shocks his struts, convulsing his limbs and concaving himself around his chassis. He does not hear Optimus’s own cry. He only feels the omnipresence of the Artifact, of its creator.

            _GivetakeneedtaketakeTAKETAKETAKE!!!!_

Limbs, separate from their owner, force body to rise. Up, upon knees, forcing the hips of the mech knelt before him back. The open array tantalizing, dripping, wet, spasming, empty…

            _‘In truth, it is about control.’_

Body separate from himself, he can distantly feel the entry of his spike into the other mech’s channel. Feel the spread of plates in the already abused valve, digging into its walls, latching into place.

            Cables tensing, he feels the intent to pull away, to pull _out_.

            “I am no one’s puppet!” Anymore. No more. Tarn yells his fury, fighting, the clash of consciences sapping from him what power he has, a power not yet tapped.

            With strength of will he had yet to test of his own, the power of the Matrix releases him, and the coming damage is stopped. Steam rises from his vents. The chassis underneath him heaves, hot and shaking.

             ‘ _We have a right to decide—’_

            Gently, servos palm the red chassis, easing him up to rest in Tarn’s lap on his thighs. Blue helm falls back into the crease of pauldron and neck cabling, weakened, but not feeble. A memory file opens unbidden, a not so distant past.

            Orion Pax, speaking with the then Senator Shockwave, arguing about the security and safe harboring of outliers such as Glitch himself. The Senator found the need to take more risks with particular harbored abilities, but, Pax was worried about pressured obligation… about manipulating those with growing or untapped abilities into feeling trapped. Both definitely had good arguments but…

            “You do know that you could just… ask?” He said.

            Pax turned to him, he remembered. Turned to him with such fire, passion, and ever engulfing _concern_.

            “But, would you believe you could say ‘no’?”

            From then, Glitch knew he could see himself and Pax, sharing drinks, having a good debate, and possibly sharing a nice, hard frag.

            Under his hands, the body of his enemy stirs. Blue optics light, blinking, clearing their haze. A flash of that same concern and a realization of the touches on his body, Prime relaxes.

            “Or, should I be referring to you as Pax?”

            Despite the letter, Vos had revealed that a newly released communiqué from Cybertron announced the war Prime’s renunciation of the Primacy. With Megatron in Autobot custody, the legitimacy of such an announcement had come into question. Now?

            Optimus, with his body stiff and mind racing, does not know what to do.

            “The promises within your letter were too good of which to pass.” Tarn hums in his audial, the frequency lightly caressing the sensors. “Now, I have to wonder, why make the offer?”

            A talon traces the seam of his chestplates. And, in response, he allows them to open.

Inside, the Matrix pulses; its light growing brighter with every wave.  Claws hover over the artifact and the mech’s EMF spikes with interest, curiosity, and… concern.

            Along the artifact and throughout the truck’s chest plates, Tarn sees the scarring left from attempted removal of the object. Lines crisscross braces and sensitive internal plates and protoform. Damage so deep a single mech would be unable to do so to themselves.

            “It appears I have my answer.” Talon’s lightly trace along one healed weld stretching from latch to chamber. The light in Prime’s optics brightens and the mech below him growls.

            _Do not touch_.

            The command falls on deafened spark.

Tarn can feel the lash of the Matrix’s energy against his claws and deep within his own spark. Beneath the artifact, the spark of Orion Pax fights in twisting streams of light. But Optimus, Orion, does not stop him. His spark does not lash or fight him, his touch. The Matrix blazes, the artifact’s anger tangible. The light dampens ethereal shine from the nebula, colors muted in the glory of the Matrix’s light.

_Remove._

Tarn does not.

Hand wrapped around what is left of the Matrix’s shell, he thrusts into the abused valve offered him. His other claws tear wheals into chassis’s paint. Lubricants drip between them. The ex-Prime’s subsonic rumbling urges him on, begs for more. The desire to bite, tear, destroy coils deep inside, but he cannot bring himself to do so. To cause harm to the mech who had never shown him the degradation the very artifact he carries wishes to bestow upon its host.

Blue hand reaches up and caresses the severe scars marring his face. Optics shuttered, Tarn increases pace, wanting to finish, needing to finish. The field of the mech in front of him shifts, and the eldritch presence stifles to the core being.

“I want to see you.”

Stalling, Tarn tears himself from the other’s chassis, spinning him around with such speed that Orion nearly loses balance. Orion grabs hold of the treads in front, allows the taking and plowing of his body, the grasp upon his spark.

The Matrix attempts demand of his attention, but Orion ignores it. Tarn is… beautiful. Biolights radiate and pulse, so close to crescendo. The focus on his person should concern him but, Glitch’s personality, even as an outlier, had always had a sense of intense fixation. In this instance, the insanity is weakened, dulled by the marvel that is Tarn’s entire strength, structure… and being.

“Let me see you,” he whispers.

He had not believed Tarn would respond, not really. He had only hoped for it. But, when chest plates part, and the golden spark blazes, Orion instinctively pulls forward.

            Fire. Blazing fire. All consuming, disintegrating the rest of their world. Too much, and not enough. Everything and nothing.

            _You were built for this_ , the mantra returning, ever present. _You will serve_.

            Tarn presses closer and Orion does not stop him. Cannot stop him.

            _You will serve._

            He does not feel the mutilation, does not feel beyond spark drowning in the sensation of joint annihilation. Shattering, shards falling into nothing. He thinks he hears their conjoined cries, but the blackness consumes him.

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 Outside the medbay, Megatron’s messenger beeps. Magnus stands on the other side of the hall, datapad in hand.

            [You are safe.]

            Ventilations hitching, Megatron looks to Magnus, who avoids his optics.

            _I’m sorry_.

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When Tarn awakens, he finds himself in the temporary quarters upon the Peaceful Tyranny’s dart ship. Pr-Pax woke before him, he realizes. How the mech managed to move him, he does not know. Moving to rub his face, he is surprised when he notices that the mess has been cleaned from his plating and his faceplate reattached. A glint of light to his side catches his eye.

A datapad has been left. Hesitant, the leader of the DJD reaches for the tool and turns it on. On it are copies of the files Op-Orion had promised, the _Decepticon Manifesto,_ and an open version of _Towards Peace_. The last interests him far more than the first at this moment. The memory of their tryst encouraging him to view that document first.

The document is well read, and notations mark nearly every sentence. But, what appears most notably are the highlighted words.

_Make no mistake: your life is mapped out in front of you… You can no more choose to change… than Cybertron can choose to stop orbiting the sun._

            Tarn lays a moment longer, contemplating. Echo of the voice in his head, in his spark, worrying at the memories.

            He never did believe in Destiny.

            But gods don’t care what they think.

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_1.5 Solar Cycles after the Incident:_

With guard detail and specific instructions, Ratchet released Rodimus from the medbay within a day. Cyclonus himself was not particularly pleased with the assigned detail, but with Tailgate tagging along and entertaining both Rodimus and Cyclonus, his demeanor was better. However, for the time being, Megatron would be acting captain, and Ultra Magnus continue his duties as a Second in Command.

            Now, as Megatron patrols the halls of the Lost Light, taking a break from the bridge, he opens the messages from Optimus and considers. Should he leave them be? Accept them for what they are, and move on? Gracious for the assistance. Or, should he respond? Dig more, per se. Find a way to better understand what has happened.

            What has changed.

            Mechs and femmes pass as he walks. Some even wave or greet him in passing, their fear having dissipated with time and experience. A novel idea.

            “You got a minute?”

            Behind him, Ratchet’s footfalls are quite easy to identify _if_ one is listening. The medic has a slight limp, a holdover Megatron believes from a field repair to which he never returned.

            “Of course, Medic.”

            Ratchet huffs, looking at him with slight annoyance and a bit of humor.

            “Don’t start,” he grumbles. Falling in step with Megatron, the medic continues, “I wanted to more… clearly define what I said yesterday.”

            Ah, yes. The meeting regarding Rodimus’s health.

            “Go on.”

            More friendly waves and a salute here and there, the two wait until they are sufficiently distant enough to speak openly, if not privately.

            “When I said I believe what Rodimus had was a holdover from a previous medical condition, I was not,” he pauses a moment, venting deeply, “I was not entirely honest with you and Magnus.”

            Megatron had already gained that such was the case. The way the medic had avoided eye contact and remained as vague as possible was not a subtle tell.

            “Don’t judge me like that. I can feel them, your thoughts. I know I wasn’t subtle. I just didn’t know how to bring it up.”

            “What, exactly, is ‘it,’ Ratchet?”

            Together, the both of them pause outside an energon storage room. No one comes down the halls, and the room reads as empty. Not that it was inaccessible, but, with the war over and energon more easily accessible, the likelihood of theft was low on the ship.

            Sighing, Ratchet continues, “It’s a matter of doctor-patient confidentiality, but, the condition reveals the patient. So… Frag, might as well.” Looking directly into Megatron’s optics, the ex-warlord gets the feeling that he should know more fully where this is going, and that from this moment, confidentiality was a must. “It’s a holdover from the Matrix. The damn forges a permanent, ingrained connection with the Bearer. I had only ever witnessed that attack once before, when it was still…”

            Megatron thinks about it. The pause giving him a moment to ponder.

            “Optimus was alone when I found him. Locked-up like Rodimus had been, but…” shaking his helm, Ratchet stops that train of thought, unwilling to further elaborate. “Anyway, long story short, temporary stasis to reboot didn’t work with Optimus, but, I thought it may disrupt the severed Matrix connection with Rodimus.

            “I hadn’t thought he would have any holdovers, since his half was destroyed. Should’ve occurred to me to have it in his files. But, I guess I had hoped otherwise.

            “I never told you this, Megatron.” The medic’s optics draw with intensity. “I don’t understand it well enough yet to be able to talk about it at large, but, someone needs to know. That damn artifact is no good. And, now that it’s in pieces, there ain’t any telling what could go wrong.”

            Turning away, Ratchet slumps. “Or, what already has.”

            Forming a response, he is interrupted before he can speak.

            It was not unusual for them to have ship alarms blaring. In fact, with the amount of mischief the crew and the ship ran into, it was almost more concerning when nothing happened. Then, the boarding requests coming through his HUD?

            [[URGENT: Request for immediate docking.]]

            The tag spurs him to run. Ratchet right behind him.

            In the halls, Rodimus and Cyclonus about slam into them.

            “I’ve been looking for you!” Rodimus shouts. “We got a request. It’s—“

            “—Optimus.” Ratchet looks at him funny, but Megatron ignores him for now.

            “Yeah! No explanation of why he’s here. Probably to put his face in—“ Megatron ignores the rest of Rodimus’s ranting. The young Prime’s distaste for his counterpart evident in field and tone alone.

            No explanation.

            The DJD had not yet shown on their radars, but if Optimus had not been successful, and the ship had been commandeered…

            Megatron mentally prepared himself to have to drop his newly refound path to pacifism and have to fight for their lives. He and the others run down the corridors, each step sounding louder, heavier than the last. Energon rushing through his lines, Megatron can feel the tension building and the need to release the anxious energy, cannon no longer present to coil that energy somewhere _not_ in his core.

            With the once filled corridors now nearly empty, Megatron cannot help but to expect the worst. Where were the crew? Why was no one communicating with him? What was the update? Was it—

            Charging onto the docking bay, he forces himself to stop, to calm. Behind him, the other three stop as well, vents cycling loudly.

            The gathering of chattering, excited crew stalls him. The Magnus stands at attention, and Megatron hears Rodimus quip about “stupid formalities” and “unwanted guests,” but his entire focus shifts to the ship.

            The Harmony.

            A beautiful example of Autobot craftsmanship, the ship appears in good repainr with no obvious damage. Minimalist in Autobot design, it is both sleek and functional. Fashionably utilitarian. But, Megatron does not notice these qualities.

            The doors part and the ramp descends.

            The collective gasp urges him forward. He runs up the ramp before the mech at its peak can collapse. Whether from wounds or exhaustion, MEgatron doesn’t know, but the ex-Prime falls into his arms, field weak and vents lowly whirring. Beside him, Megatron can feel Ratchet’s scans. Orders for him to help get Optimus to the medbay.

            Lifting their visitor into his arms, his soul aches at the sight. The wounds are extensive, and the other mech’s field tired.

            “We’ve got you.” He whispers. His grasp tightens as he moves, protective protocols fluctuating. Ultra Magnus controls the situation in the bay; distracting Rodimus from the situation and having him Captain despite medical orders. Megatron belatedly realizes that, amongst the crew, there are so few who actually have the history or terms to aid the ex-Prime, nevermind the even fewer among them on positive grounds with him. Hugging Optimus tighter, Megatron resolves to mend their own damaged bridge.

“I’ve got you.” 

\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To some, their road is paved by Destiny. To others, choice wears a new path. For yet others, they intertwine. None are wrong, nor right. They just are. Ideas built on good intentions. But, gods care not for our ideas nor our intentions. They have their own plans. Fates inescapable.

**Author's Note:**

> Two ABSOLUTELY MARVELOUS writers, who have helped so much: Thank you, all, for your advice and encouragement!
> 
> Chills of Fire  
> OriginGirl  
> 


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